Under Your Spell
by rotting witch hazel
Summary: The Witch Beilschmidt is known far and wide in the south - for her skill, for her beauty, for her penchant for stirring up more than a little toil and trouble in her wake. But what happens when she finds a sort-of-kind-of dead werewolf in the woods? Magic. Graverobbing. Some probable jaywalking.


The swamps around the Red Woman's house were always terribly quiet. The birds chirped, the animals went about their business, but the further one traveled into her territory the more quiet the sounds of the swamp became. Her house was plain, built of sturdy wood held up on ancient supporting beams that creaked and sighed as they slowly, slowly settled into the soft earth of the swamp. There was also a pleasant little yard filled with friendly dogs and plants that bloomed out of season, and out of their natural climate, for that matter. It looked like fell right out of a fairy tale, with wind chimes and colorful curtains peeking from the open windows and the warm smell of fresh bread and pies drifting from the house. Bugs never bit, and the swamp's haze of muggy heat lessened.

That little house was near a road, and if one knew where to go (and they always did, if by a voice in their ear as they rode past that half hidden road or a friend of a friend told them where to go) they would find her. The woman who could cure what ailed them, who could cook up a potion for your enemies or for your lovers, as well tell you your fortune. For a price, of course.

The witch who lived in that little swamp was known far and wide for her trade – it helped that her mother lived there before her, and clientele that traveled all the way from New Orleans still traveled there for her help now. Even the old customers who would soon die came to the witch, and their children, for that matter. Then _their_ children's friends. Then their friends, and their friends. Wasn't that interesting, how word of mouth worked?

Gerda Beilschmidt's life was all sorts of interesting, really. Seeing all sorts of people filter through her door, going into town and spending her hard earned money on whatever luxury she wanted, even bringing a man back to her home to work a little magic on him and kicking him out into the woods never ceased to amuse her.

Even in the lonely afternoons with her dogs at her feet, she still had her books, or her garden, or her sewing. All perfectly feminine habits, although calling gentlemen still asked her oh so politely to cover her ankles, for heavens sake!

_Be a lady_, they said in their sweet Southern.

But Gerda wasn't a lady.

She politely, ever so politely, explained to them that she was a _devil fucking hedonistic cocksucker and if she wanted to show her ankles, well, good Sirs, she damn well would._

* * *

His life was a whirl of fine carpets and cold marble floors from a very young age. He was born with a silver spoon in his mouth – his mother a fine, high-class girl and his father a from a long line of rich men. A perfectly Russian noble family from the south, spending their summers in castles and roaming mountains by the Black Sea and their winters in St. Petersburg, dining and drinking and dancing, and of course, slipping out every full moon to become a feared man-beast that prowled the poorer outskirts of the city to feast on whatever poor soul came into their path.

You know, the usual fair for a family famed to be as old and as feared as time itself in some circles.

The Braginskys were old money, as old as you could get in Russia, and they were respected. Feared, loved, the whole lot, with enough money to send their second boy off to New Orleans. To 'study', Ivan had proposed, even though he had no intent to study in the city of lights and booze and hot, deliciously sinful summer nights.

Even alone and without his family for the first time in his life, Ivan thrived in the younger circles of the city's elite. They all welcomed him for his exotic accent and dastardly charming smile, and stayed for the party animal that Ivan quickly became known for.

If only it stayed that way, and if only Ivan had been a _l-i-t-t-l-e_ more careful.

He wouldn't have gotten that brick to the head or that rope around his neck.

And he certainly wouldn't have been dumped in the middle of the woods with silver laced through his mouth, stitching the soft lips shut over deadly, cursed teeth.

What a shame pretty dead boys were.

* * *

Gerda Beilschmidt, for once in her life, was bored. Her house was clean, her dogs were clean (and fed, and primed to perfection), even her garden was perfectly groomed. For once, there was no housework, and her legs didn't bother her in the slightest. In fact, she felt an itch in the cooling autumn air, something calling to her.

She ignored it at first – her magic tingled at her fingers, but she resisted the urge to blindly follow it. Being blind, metaphorically speaking, for a witch, was a quicker way to die horribly than jumping off a cliff. As you know, creatures of the night, and of the 'must consume human flesh' kind, often pulled witches from their nests, and witches, cursed with the insane human need to poke everything with a stick at least ONCE, often followed. Then they died. Horribly.

However, Gerda didn't feel like (almost) dying for the sake of excitement. At least not yet, so, instead, she settled down on her porch, light skirts drifting lightly in the breeze, her dogs at her feet, and a magazine in her hand, Gerda tried to focus on the text. It was a second addition to a series she had been dying to read more of, but as she settled into the story her mind immediately skipped to the well worn paths that veered off to other stretches of (more favorable) land.

She needed to go. She needed to just see, just a little peak of whatever siren song was calling to her. Gerda bit her lip, settling the magazine down with a light thump and put her hand to her temple and sighed. She'd never be able to get anything done like this.

Not now.

Not now when her magic, like a second coating of invisible flesh pulsed and shivered in excitement. In devious curiosity it promised her rewards beyond measure if only she just smothered her survival instincts for a moment and wondered into the unknown.

Gerda blinked, and she found herself walking, suddenly, basket in hands, dogs barking happily at her skirts and looking up at her with expectant, happy brown eyes. Her feet moved without her say so, but she wanted to know. She wanted to see whatever it was that called to her, even if it meant her dying.

Dying – what a strange thought. Gerda shook her head. Things like that always happened with magic – it made the user much more vulnerable for whatever questionable being to force it's whims and plans onto them. They became chess pieces or simple dolls to play metaphysical house with. Slowly slipping in pieces of information and suggestions, slowly, whispering from the deepest corners of the universe...

Gerda shook the alien thought from her head again, refocusing her sight into the deeper part of the swamp lands. This was a place where she came to collect truffles and mushrooms and the occasional snake or two. She dragged her skirts through the foliage, making sure to step over a log here, a rock there, with her dogs following behind her in an orderly line, waiting for their mistress's orders. Gerda went about her business as usual, the need to walk into the middle of the woods for something she didn't even know the name of ebbing away like the river waters after a flood. She picked a rather delicious looking patch of mushrooms, and then some poisonous ones (the little mason jars of things NOT to eat were looking pitifully empty as demand for good poison rose) and even found a bush of berries to pick before she stepped on something that definitely was not mud nor grass nor foliage.

"Why hello there, big boy," She whispered, her tone nearly dropping to a purr.

She looked down, and half hidden under the bush was a body, big and lean and covered in dirt and leaves. Clearly a haphazard body dump, Gerda thought, a dark smirk creeping onto her face as she leaned down. She looked at the body – lightly tanned skin, hairy blonde arms, a lovely button up shirt, and oh, those were nice, high-end overalls and buttons, weren't they? Numbers rolled through her head as she thought of what she could get at market for them – maybe five, six dollars – good money. Very good money.

She reached up to the man's face, and pulled hard, dragging the limp body's upper half from under the foliage. Gerda was pleasantly surprised – and disappointed – to find that he was good looking, even dead. Wheat colored hair that fell onto his forehead, clear skin, a strong nose, really, what a shame he was dead, Gerda thought. What was odd, though (like finding a body in them middle of the woods and wondering how much you could get for his cloths wasn't) was the silver stitching over his mouth. He looked normal, high class, even, whose family probably dumped him out here because they were just too ashamed that they family had a hanger, judging from the ugly black-purple bruise around his neck. She ran a hand over his face – but why the-

Then a rush of air and the body moved, animated once again and the eyes flickered, opening but still blind to the world, and Gerda leered back with a screech, her hands flying to her mouth as she landed hard on the ground and her dogs barked. Only _zombies_ moved when they were dead, and Gerda was not going to be dragged off to some voodoo priest or dark witch to be eaten alive and her uterus be used as a ceremonial hat.

The body, however, only breathed, it's eyes fluttering open and closed, groaning, trying to open its mouth and _speak_ but failing as the silver stitching sealed his lips again, making them ooze with a thick black liquid. It's head flopped side to side for a few moments, trying hard to keep dazed eyes open, to sit up, to take in it's environment, but the strength to do just that failed and it settled down, helpless and breathing hard. Gerda sat up, crawling over to the body and placing a hand on it's chest.

Again, it breathed hard, trying to lift it's arm to grab her hand, to defend itself, but Gerda patted the body's chest lightly.

"It's okay, Mister Zombie, it's okay – you'll be fine, I won't hurt you." Gerda whispered to him, cooing out the words like a mother to a colicky baby. Surprisingly, those words settled the creature (it definitely wasn't human, after all) and Gerda slowly unbuttoned the creature's shirt.

She leaned down, and listened for a heartbeat – and she heard it, beating loud and strong and healthy. She sat back up, staring at the man's face. His lips were a dark purple, swollen from the stitches and wet and stained from the still-oozing liquid from when it tried to speak. His eyes had sickly black-purple rings under them, his face sunken in and, for all intents and purposes, he looked pretty fucking dead. The only thing that gave him away was the quick movements of his eyes moving under his sporadically fluttering lids, and his heaving chest.

Gerda brushed her fingers over the stitches in his mouth, eyes narrowing, and she felt some sort of magic in them. The fact that they had been placed there for some other purpose aside form the obvious one was clear (after all, if you wanted to shut up a dead body, you'd just rip out the tongue), but what exactly the intent was happened to be lost upon Gerda. To keep him from talking, from eating or drinking was the the clearest goal, but she'd have to do more research to figure out anything more. This all seemed just so _terribly_ inefficient. Despite all the pity she felt for the man-creature, she felt a stab of cynical curiosity shove it's way to the forefront of her mind. Gerda tilted her head, and gently ran her hand over his cheek.

His breathing stopped being so forced, and then his body relaxed. He almost seemed asleep then.

Gerda, for all her cruel acts in her life, couldn't leave him like this. Whatever he did to get himself in this state, he didn't deserve to die slowly of exposure, or worse yet, get eaten up by a wandering alligator or any other kind of maneater that may (did) haunt the forests at night. She picked up her basket, and with her dogs pacing and yipping, Gerda grabbed the body by the arms and started to pull.

By the time she got back home, it was near dusk, and she was covered in sweat, her breathing uneven and labored as she gave one last hull into her house. The dogs followed suit, ears perked and tails wagging, but something about their manner told Gerda that they were mocking her for taking yet another stray home.

God, she missed it sometimes, but she was glad she was able to suppress the ability to speak to animals when she was younger. They would've probably mocked her for the next week – well, they would still do that, knowing Goose and Crow and their sarcastic streak as pups. She could almost feel them telling her to put her weight into it, dumb human!

Gerda pushed the thought of her canine companions mocking her away, and for a moment, thought of trying to put the man on her craft table so she could properly fix him up. But then she looked down at him, and back outside, with the sun setting and the forest waking up, and she just let him drop to the floor. He'd be fine on the carpet, right?

A groan told her that he was at least alive after the trip, so, the answer would be a yes to her.


End file.
